Seasons Changing
by briaranise
Summary: The seasons change without fail. And Arthur knows that no matter what he does... this, too, will pass. USUK, post-WW2


This is part 1 of 4. I hope you all enjoy it!

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Arthur isn't used to the silence.

He's used to shouting, to sounds of sirens blaring and bombs exploding and the heartbreaking wailing of his people. He's used to stiff military meetings, to the crackle of the radio reporting news from abroad, to the sounds of gunfire. But most of all, he's used to having a loudmouthed American nation by the name of Alfred F. Jones with him constantly, badgering him and teasing him and cheering him up and generally being a loveable pest.

The window to his left is still broken, but he supposes it can still wait to be fixed. He's taped what little yellowed newspaper he can spare over it, and hopes that it is enough. At one point he'd collected piles and piles of old papers, but now most of it covers broken windows and the like. When it rains, the newspaper gets soggy and tears, but it's not like he has much time to spend in this room anyway. The lights flicker then go out, and he sits still in the semi-darkness, staring at the strip of moonlight thrown across his lap and waiting patiently for the generator to kick in. It takes a little while longer than usual, but then again he's not terribly good with mechanical things, and he's not terribly concerned about the lack of light, anyway. Perhaps he'll get Alfred to take a look at it next time he's over.

Arthur squints down at the embroidery in his lap, gingerly unpicking the soft green thread of the rose stems. He's run out of that colour, and of most colours actually, but when his hands itch to pick up the needle and thread, he can't help himself. He doesn't want to go and buy more thread – doesn't want to leave the house, doesn't want to watch his people suffering any longer. So he reuses what thread he has lying around, sewing and unpicking and sewing again, until the white fabric of the handkerchief is thin and fraying. It's a shame to waste the handkerchief, since he's positive that it will be too worn and dirty to use after he's done with it, but he's sure that he'll go positively insane without those soothing hand motions. This one is for Alfred anyway, so maybe it wouldn't be such a waste. That boy never cares about small details like that; just the thought of getting something from the Englishman was enough to light up his face. But it wouldn't be fair to give him something so worn, so thin and worthless and useless. Something so like Arthur himself.

Alfred. That stupid, lovely, insufferably wonderful git had confessed his love for Arthur towards the end of the war. They had gotten into a very civilised discussion about some topic or another, which involved many insults, many physical blows, and more than a few tears. Then Alfred had jabbed a finger at the shorter man's face and had shouted, "I still love you, you stupid old man! Just, differently to how I loved you back then. But I don't love you any less. Hell, I probably love you even more now! Don't you fucking understand that, you bastard? I love you!"

Arthur still isn't sure how they went from arguments to confessions of love, but he isn't complaining. Despite believing in fairies and unicorns and old folk tales where the characters live happily ever after, he doesn't expect a happy ending for himself. He knows it won't ever come, so he'll take any speck of happiness that he can get. And Alfred grants him more than a speck. Alfred, with his golden hair and impossibly blue eyes and that stupid gravity-defying piece of hair and his million-dollar smile absolutely, utterly fills him to the brim with happiness, so much that he feels so light that he could just simply float away. Every time he lays eyes on him, his heart swells with love and he quietly admits to himself that it has always been Alfred. Could only ever be Alfred.

He sips at his lukewarm water, silently wishing for tea but unwilling to use the last pinch of leaves left in the tin. Humming to himself quietly, he rethreads his needle and begins to re-embroider the twisting stems of the roses. A knock at the door breaks his concentration, and he pricks himself. A drop of blood wells out and, rather than stain anything with that sticky red substance, he quickly shoves his finger into his mouth.

He hates the taste of blood. He's tasted too much of it in the past years, from split lips and knocked out teeth and broken noses. He'd coughed it up during the Blitz, felt it slip through his fingertips and had smelt that awful, metallic scent–

"Arthur!"

The shout is muffled, but it startles him and rouses him from his reminiscing. He moves slowly towards his front door, feeling old and tired and worn out. He twists the lock out of habit; it had actually been broken when some of his more desperate citizens had broken into any houses that looked unoccupied that particular night, and he has yet to have it replaced. With a small sigh, he twists the handle and peers out at whoever is disturbing his peace.

"Hi!"

There's a long pause, during which he stares, wide-eyed, at the American on his doorstep. He's confused, for a moment, wondering if maybe he is actually asleep and dreaming, because there is absolutely no way that Alfred can be standing outside his door, smiling his million-dollar smile.

"A-Alfred," he stammers finally, drowning in the intoxicating blue, wanting to smooth down that unruly blonde hair–

"Pleased to see me, huh?" the American chirps cheerfully. "I'm happy to see you, too. I've missed you, Artie!"

And Arthur hates himself, because all he can do in response is scowl and mutter, "won't you come inside?" He hates himself because he can never be honest with his words, can never say what he is really feeling. But Alfred nods enthusiastically and bends down, hefting a large cardboard box into his arms.

"What is that?" Arthur asks warily, blocking the doorway.

"A surprise," the taller blond replies mysteriously. "Aren't you gonna let me in?"

"I want to know what is inside that box," the Briton says firmly, irrational fear creeping up his spine. He doesn't even know what he is afraid of anymore – everything and anything seems to send him off into panic attacks, and he has no idea why, and it frustrates him and he doesn't ever want to show that weak side to Alfred.

"Something awesome," Alfred says, frowning a little. "You'll love it, promise."

Arthur wants to move, because by God, he trusts Alfred more than anyone else, but his body won't respond and his eyes are glued to the box. Alfred gives a soft chuckle and steps forward, bodily picking the Briton up and slinging him over one shoulder.

"Unhand me at once!" Arthur cries then, predictably, and begins to squirm. His ribs ache and his bones creak, not fully recovered from the beating his country has taken, but he cannot let himself be taken without a fight. "Don't you dare go about bringing strange boxes into my home, you twat!"

Alfred has the nerve to whistle as he makes his way through the doorway and into the living room. He gently dumps the angry man onto the couch and takes a seat next to him. "Go on, open it!" he says cheerfully, and after a moment of glaring Arthur hesitantly complies.

The box rests on Alfred's lap, so Arthur kneels on the couch next to him and leans over him, one hand on the American's shoulder to steady himself. He peels back the tape and lets out a small gasp, hand immediately shooting to the sealed, familiar tin. Alfred laughs softly as Arthur cradles the tin of tea to his chest, jostling the box just enough so that Arthur can spot another tin nestled within the cardboard. He turns grateful eyes towards his very own American hero, and whispers, "I… I… Alfred…" and Alfred shushes him with a soft, chaste kiss, because he always, always understands, even when Arthur himself doesn't.

"Aren't you gonna look at the rest of it?" Alfred asks, nudging him lightly in the ribs. Arthur winces and refuses to let go of the tea, so Alfred folds back the flaps of the box and tilts it slightly towards the Briton.

"C-chocolate?" He stares at it, then inches forward and picks it up. He laughs in delight. "Do you have any idea how much of a luxury these items are right now?" Sweets are hard to get a hold of, and Arthur doesn't know whether to be touched by Alfred's thoughtfulness or offended by his conceited show of wealth, however unintentional it may be.

"I know you guys have it tough," Alfred said, running a soothing hand through his lover's hair. "But you're doing so well. I mean, you held on for the entire war, and you're still holding on even now. You are so goddamn tough, Artie."

Arthur flushes at the American's words, and half-heartedly bats at the hand. "Don't call me that," he grumbles, but he isn't actually angry, because he knows that to Alfred, the shortening of another's name indicates closeness and affection. That doesn't mean that he can bring himself to call the stupid git 'Alfie', though.

He peers into the box again, and comes across some more tins and jars. He squints at the labelling before glancing up at Alfred, who shrugs.

"I couldn't get you any fresh stuff, 'cause it'd kinda go bad before I got it to you, ya know? So I got you canned fruits. And I mean, I know that you're rationing bread now but I got you some jelly as well. You need some sugar, not that you're not sweet enough already, heh, but you're awful skinny! And I brought—"

Arthur leans forward and rests his forehead on the American's broad shoulder, waiting for the rambling to cease. Though rather loud and silly and sometimes immature, Alfred is so sweet that Arthur can't think of a single reason why he could deserve someone so wonderful. He breathes in the familiar leather scent and lets his eyes flutter closed. If only he could stay here forever – forever, and ever, and ever, until the end of the world, and then beyond that. He feels Alfred's arm, warm and solid and strong, slide around his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" Alfred is saying, sounding panicked. "Oh shit, you're not crying, are you? I'm sorry, Artie, Arthur, what did I do? Is it what I said before? I'm sorry, I don't mind if you're skinny…"

"I'm not crying," he assures his lover, lifting his head and sending him a crooked half-smile. "I was just thinking."

"Oh," Alfred sighs in relief. "That's good. Now look at what else I bought for you! Aren't I the best boyfriend ever?"

Arthur pulls a face. "That is a terribly juvenile word," he says, but of course he doesn't mean it. Because it makes his heart soar to have Alfred talking about their relationship out loud, to have him give it a name and– and–

"Would you like me to call you 'lover' instead?" Alfred asks teasingly, leaning his face in close. "We're lovers, right? But we're also boyfriends. We've got a Special Relationship, Artie. What's wrong with saying it?"

"N-nothing," the Briton mumbles, hiding his face in Alfred's shoulder again. When he feels that his face is no longer red enough to rival the roses in his garden – had they still been there, that is – he finally looks up to see Alfred digging through the box.

"Powdered eggs!" the younger blonde announces, holding up the packet triumphantly. "Awesome, right? There are more of those in there. And there's soap, too! I dunno if you needed that, but I heard it was being rationed too, so I thought I may as well bring some."

He pulls out other items, too. Milk powder and sugar and biscuits and more, until Arthur can't stand it any longer. He lunges forward and kisses him.

"Thank you," he says, smiling against the other's lips.

"No problem, babe," Alfred responds immediately. "What kind of hero would I be if I left my beloved to starve?"

Arthur clutches at Alfred's leather jacket, and feels kisses being peppered across his forehead, his eyebrows, his nose, his cheeks – it's intense, more intense than when he had sex with others in the past, because now there is so much emotion, so much love, and he feels as if he is drowning.

He doesn't mind drowning, as long as Alfred is with him.

Alfred pulls away then, smiling down at Arthur. His smile isn't the usual cocky grin; it's gentler, softer, less certain and more hesitant. "I'm always here for you, you know?" he says, a tad awkwardly. "You're never gonna be alone again."

Arthur is touched but doesn't want to become emotional, so instead he settles on feeling guilty. Why should he get these luxuries, when too many of his citizens are homeless, and starving, with children who are much too thin and who have been forced to act far more mature than their age, and men who will never return? Why should Alfred be using his precious time to fly across the ocean and bring him a box of supplies? Why should he matter so much to someone who has everything?

Alfred must notice, because he suddenly cups both of Arthur's cheeks in his hands and leans in close. "I love you," he says simply, reassuringly. "I love you so much, Arthur. I'll love you forever. Always have, always will."

"I love you, too," Arthur whispers in response.

He'll hold onto this for as long as he possibly can. He silently promises himself that he will do whatever he can to keep his boy, his man, his America, his Alfred, from wanting to leave him again. Alfred says 'forever', but they will just have to wait and see how long 'forever' really is.


End file.
